Wearden
by kamelion
Summary: A mercy mission turns tragic. Carson fans . . . trust me. :
1. Chapter 1

This was not happening. There was no way in hell this was happening. Rodney gritted his teeth against the nausea he felt as he held his field jacket over the tear in Carson's chest. His friend had stopped talking, stopped relaying life-saving medical instructions, stopped being the goddamn doctor. And so there they were, in the middle of nowhere, injured, with night rapidly coming and the chilled wind lifting goosebumps on his exposed arms. His breathing sounded as harsh as Carson's, only his was from blind fear. No, not blind. He could see it, taste the metallic burn of it, feel his adrenaline on overload because of it. His jacket was soaked. There was no way Carson should still be alive, but he kept breathing, and Rodney laid into him every time he threatened to stop.

Nothing had prepared him for this. No training, no first aid course, nothing. Not watching the red essence of life rush away in a flood, leaving behind the pale husk of a brilliant man.

A helpless sob escaped Rodney as he shifted the jacket, then re-bundled it and pressed it to the wound, hoping sadistically that the pain would bring his friend around. He pressed hard, so hard he swore he cracked ribs, but the man didn't wake. The only thing that moved was the dark flow which reddened as the air struck it, then darkened once again as it dried.

His radio was gone. Carson's was gone. He had no recollection of dropping them, or losing them, or ever having them. The memory of the past day and a half was little more than a tormented nightmare, filled with shards of things he would just as soon forget, and was trying his damndest to. He eyed the darkening sky, knowing he needed to find better shelter than the tree they were lying under, but there was nothing. They had fled the forest and trekked into the barren landscape that the natives were so terrified of. That was where the Wearden lay, and the Wearden was a creature, he had been told, who stalked and preyed upon his victims, leaving nothing behind. Rodney wasn't keen on meeting this Wearden, but was even less keen on trying to move his friend. Instead he pulled the body close to him, keeping tight pressure on the wound, noticing the bleeding was starting to slow. Either that was a good thing, or he'd bled out. Seeing as how he was still breathing, Rodney dismissed the later and pulled him as close as possible, trying to keep warm in the increasingly bitter wind. It seemed Carson had escaped one death just to suffer another.

The wind sliced through them all night. Rodney held Carson close, feeling the lack of heat in his body, feeling the breaths fade. "You know," he said hoarsely, because he had been talking non-stop since Carson's last convulsion, "I never thought I was that smart when I was little. I thought everyone else was just immensely stupid. It never occurred to me that I was the one who wasn't normal." He smiled. "I can tell you exactly how many different ways the human body can contort to fit into a locker. You know that? It's an interesting little tidbit, you always wanted to know more about my school days, well, there it is." He sighed. "Of course I'm sitting here talking about myself, which is what I do best, right? D. Rodney McKay, purveyor of immense scientific knowledge, resorting to small talk. And I'm sure that's not what you want to hear." Carson didn't move; not a flicker of an eyelid nor muscle spasm, just someone threatening to go stiff. Rodney knew the last breath had passed during the night, but he refused to believe it, holding his friend limply, pressing the jacket to the wound. Even the short dark hair settled as the air stilled. The wind that had been breathing harshly with him, died with him.

"They'll find us, you know. Colonel Sheppard, Teyla, Ronon. . .they're resourceful. There's no way they just left us here. I know this wasn't their mission, but I mean," he barked a laugh, "we've been gone a pretty long time. Carson? They'll be here, you just hold on." He shifted so that the body lay across him as he propped against the bare tree. "Hold on just a little longer."

It made him feel better, to talk. It always did. There was nothing in the shadows that his babble couldn't frighten, nothing that his techo-speak couldn't befuddle. He started launching into a tirade of a verbal schematic layout of the city of Atlantis, walking through the hallways in his memory, coming to stop before Colonel Sheppard's door, begging for help. Telling him there was something wrong with Carson, that he was lying still and actually listening to him, and that wasn't right at all. He waited for an answer, and was surprised to hear it. It took a few moments to realize the voice wasn't in his mind, but behind him. . .and it wasn't Sheppard's.

His head whipped around, and he pushed Carson's body away, with more force than the concept of 'respect for the dead' generally allowed. He backed a step away, pulling his gun and aiming at the figure watching him. He eyed the figure in disbelief, and his fingers wrapped firmly around the grip of his pistol. Time froze. He was aware of the roughness, the weight of the weapon, the sky as it started to lighten to imperial blue, the stars as they gradually winked out. The gnarled tree sharpened as the light hit it, and the man could clearly be seen.

He was bent, and broken. His hands were as twisted as the vine-choked staff he held. His cloak was little more than rags, his grey hair tangled and falling over his shoulders like a web. His back curved like the spines of a dragon, and his eyes were as sharply flamed.

Rodney's breathing quickened as he readjusted his grip. "Who are you?" He wanted to sound threatening. He sounded weak.

The man took a step closer, then two, and halted as the gun waved at him. Rodney was pissed, beyond pissed. He was crazed. "I said, who the fuck are you? Don't come any closer, you need to back off!" The aim of the weapon lowered, following the man as he crouched beside Carson. Rodney advanced on him. "I said, back off! Didn't you hear me? Back. . .the fuck. . .OFF!"

The new arrival looked up calmly. "This man is dead."

"SHUT UP!" Rodney's finger played along the trigger.

"Yet you talked to him for some time." He lifted Carson's hand by the wrist, and let it drop.

Why it always took a third party stating the obvious to get a solid fact through Rodney's head was beyond him. Rodney's wild eyes settled on his friend; on the complete and absolute stillness of his chest, the grey whiteness of his skin, his slightly parted lips, and the truth of what was said stabbed at him. The gun lowered, aimed at the ground. His breath jerked back into his lungs. "Oh. . .oh god." His head shook in denial. "No. He's. . .no. He's not. Oh god, he's not. He's a doctor." The gun slid from his fingers. "He's a damn doctor. He heals people. That's why we're out here. . .fuck. FUCK!" He dropped to his knees, ignoring the man who carefully watched him, and grabbed the front of his vest. "Dammit! You're a fucking doctor! Heal yourself, DAMN YOU!" He shook the man, slapped him, squeaked in horror as the head rolled loosely. "Fuck! Wake up! Wake the fuck up, you bastard!" He pulled Carson to him, rocked, angry at the tears that rolled, angrier at the screams that tore from him. "Damn you, Colonel! Where the fuck were you?"

The man watched impassively for some time, then stood as the ranting eased. "Come," he said gently. "And bring him with you."

Rodney sniffed, saying nothing. He stared blankly over the landscape, which looked as empty as he felt.

The man gently touched Rodney's shoulder. "The sun approaches. I have a place to go, and you need a place to stay. Gather your friend."

"Why, so you can bury him?" The voice wasn't his. It was gravely, full of hate.

"Do you wish for him to be buried here?"

He was inhaling deeply, ferociously, his insides burning like never before. "No," he growled deep in his throat.

The man nodded. "Then bring him, or he will not be in one piece to take back with you. The creatures here will make sure they feast upon his flesh, and they rarely leave bones." There was a pause. "I have soup."

Rodney's focus returned. He met the eyes of the man who now stooped before him, across Carson's body. Rodney, without any good reason and relying solely on instinct, scooped the body into his arms and stood with the man's help. Carson almost melted back to the ground. The utter lack of life stilled Rodney in his tracks, and he fought back a wave of despair. The man braced him, merely saying, "Come," and hobbling toward a destination that, to Rodney's tortured eyes, was hidden and anything but a haven.

It was near nightfall when they approached the small series of caverns. Rodney hesitated outside, but, being so fatigued from the day's events and weary of carrying his friend's still body, he found the promise of shelter greatly outweighed his fear of small spaces. He stumbled in, and found himself navigating a series of smooth twists and turns that led to a chamber of sorts. A fire was lit, banishing the darkness, and a rough piece of material was flapped to the ground for the body to be placed upon. Rodney bent and set Carson down, more gently than he'd ever handled anything in his life. He even smoothed the hair back, wondering at the fact that, while he was dripping with sweat, his friend wasn't. And he should be. Dammit. . .he should be.

Rodney could do nothing but sit back after he had released his burden. No, not a burden. Carson was never a burden, just. . .heavy. That was all. Limp, very limp, very. . .dead. Oh god. . .he really was. . .Rodney leaned in and patted the face, which lolled towards him. The eyes had opened into half slits, unseeing, glazed.

Rodney ran to the darkest corner and vomited. He retched and coughed and shook uncontrollably, headed back to the warmth of the fire, glanced at the body, which hadn't budged, and rushed back to vomit again. There was no longer any way of denying the reality of the situation. He sat in the dark, and the man let him without interfering, allowing Rodney the space he needed.

He knew some substantial time had passed when the tunnel before him carried a faint hint of sun. 'Must be shining directly into the mouth of the cave,' he thought, and watched as the light crept across the smoothed walls. The cavern itself was odd, there were no jutting rocks, no stalactites nor stalagmites, no crags nor crevasses. Just smoothed walls, rounded around what should have been sharp rocks, like the interior of an artificial geological display. The light curved around it, diffused rather than sliced by shadows.

The soft yellow glow caught him, and he watched as it slowly crept up his arm and his hands. By the time it reached his elbows, he decided it was time to go back and face the consequences of his actions.

The man had covered Carson, but not as one who lay dead, rather as one who lay sleeping. There was a bowl beside the fire, nearly in it, sitting on a large stone. There was another blanket set opposite Carson's. Rodney walked in, his feet not wanting to move, but his stubbornness carried them anyway. He tried not to look at Carson, but for his effort, there may as well have been absolutely nothing else in the room.

"Eat. You need to eat, and I must redress your wound." He pointed to Rodney's bloodied hand, which hurt like hell, though he was just starting to notice.

"I'm not hungry."

The man grunted. "You will lose your strength if you do not eat, and I for one have enough to tend to without being encumbered by your own stupidity. Eat or not, as it suits you."

Rodney blinked, and came to himself for the first time since being discovered by the strange man. With renewed eyes he took in his surroundings, and walked towards the bowl.

The man nodded at the change. "That's it. You must eat, you must talk, before the shock worms its way back in. And it will, make no mistake about that. It will." He stirred the soup in his own bowl by waving it around to evenly distribute the contents, lifted it to his lips, and slurped noisily.

Rodney raised the bowl to his nose and sniffed, then mimicked the man, swirling the broth and taking a sip. It was wonderfully salty, and warm. His eyes closed gratefully, and for a moment he almost felt himself.

The man nodded. "Now. You talk, and I'll listen."

Rodney wasn't certain he was ready to do that. "There isn't anything to say."

"You're wrong. There is much to say." He nodded to Carson's body. "I suppose you figure his life isn't worth mentioning then. That's fine, like I said, I have plenty to do. . ."

"That's not what I said, I just happen to think that what occurred is absolutely none of your business!" Rodney snapped.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? And you think this is the proper way to show your thanks to someone who has taken you in? Shared his meal with you? Provided you with a shelter against the things of the night?"

"The things of the night didn't disturb me, only you did that."

"You dishonor your friend."

"No!" Rodney slammed his bowl down, and tried his hardest not to reach for his pistol. "Look, stop playing these games, who the hell are you?"

"Tell me this, Dr. Rodney McKay. . .do you enjoy being wrong?" The man leaned in, relishing the speechless expression on Rodney's face. He laughed, unable to help himself. "There is no magic here. I merely listened to you talk for quite a while. You enjoy discussing yourself with dead people. It gives the notion of a captured audience a whole new meaning." He laughed again.

Emotions raged through Rodney, from wanting to admire this man to wanting to fling him into the wall. At the same time something struck him hard; the man's speech sounded familiar, like he was from Atlantis, from Earth. "You are a bastard."

"And you have some things to get off your chest." For someone so bent, he didn't strike Rodney as an old man. Even the grey hair looked. . .youthful. . .like platinum blond. "But first. Your hand." He reached out, and his twisted hand snatched Rodney's before he could back away.

The grip was strong, and Rodney cried out as his bones crushed together, much worse than the pain he felt from his wounds. The man continued to squeeze, sending Rodney crashing to his knees. "What the hell are you doing to me? I thought you were fixing it! What kind of mystic voodoo is this?" His speech was gapped with gasps of pain, and it wasn't until he screeched that the man let him go. Rodney caught his breath and cradled his hand, examining the abused skin. He flexed his fingers, carefully, then more aggressively. His face shot up. "What the hell did you just do?"

"It is more what you did, not me. It still must be wrapped."

His gaze drifted back to Carson. "Like kicking someone in the shin to relieve them of their stomach pain?"

"I believe that would be a form of misdirection, and very astute. But I can guarantee, this wasn't quite the case." He smiled and produced a clean cloth, which was carefully wrapped around Rodney's hand. "I would refrain from using this for a while. It will remain sore, but will heal quickly."

Rodney merely nodded, uncertain as to what he should say. "Thank you." Well, that seemed good enough.

The man nodded and sat back as Rodney examined his handiwork. "Now," he said, "I believe my efforts in bringing you here, in feeding you, and in tending to your wound warrants a story. My people were vivid storytellers, and I miss that."

"Who are your people?"

"You were fleeing them." He nodded at Carson. "Now tell me, what did he do to deserve such punishment?"

Rodney's lips parted in astonishment, and he looked at the body of his friend. He realized his did owe him this, and that this man was providing a way for Rodney to cope with what was happening. Without that, he would probably go mad. He could feel it, the apathy that threatened to close in and ruin him.

"He killed a man," he replied softly.


	2. Chapter 2

"Tell me again why I'm here?" Dr. Carson Beckett was stomping along the path like a petulant child. His pack was sagging because he refused to tighten the straps any further, complaining that he wasn't built for on-foot-pack travel, and that his back was about to give out. It was a complaint worthy of Dr. Rodney McKay, and indeed the man smirked at him in pleasure.

"Oh, if only Colonel Sheppard could be here to hear this. He'd get off my ass."

"Rodney, there is a firm difference between a legitimate complaint and blowing hot air."

"Excuse me?" Rodney turned right as Carson stumbled and had to brace himself on a tree. The physicist sighed and retraced his steps. "Look, take it from someone who has studied inertia for a living. You don't want to fall. This. . ." he gave the pack a sharp tug, nearly bringing Carson down to his knees, "this causes unnecessary pull. See? You have to lean forward to counter, and that means tripping on these roots that rival the toes of Godzilla. Now. . ." he reached underneath the pack and yanked at the straps, then faced him and adjusted the front, "that will actually improve your rather meager hiking ability by equally distributing the forward inertial motion with the counterweight on your back." He gave Carson's shoulder a slap. "Got it?"

"Clear as pudding," Carson groaned, though he did walk more easily. Not that he'd admit that to Rodney. The man was as smug as he'd even seen him, guiding the more inexperienced doctor on a journey to a stricken village. "Remind me again why we're here?"

"Because you offered your services? Although I don't know why, from what I hear these people are about as useful as condoms in the Vatican."

"Rodney, how can you say something so crude?"

"Easily." He kept walking.

Carson shook his head. He had to remind himself that Rodney really wasn't as egotistical, well, okay he was, but he wasn't as heartless as he appeared. "What I meant before was, why are we here. Together. I know my duty, what's yours?"

"Glorified tour guide," Rodney huffed.

"Come on, there has to be more than that."

"No, that's about it." Rodney released a powerful and over-dramatic sigh. "Colonel Sheppard had to tend to a matter on PXR-333, whichever planet that is, and Teyla and Ronon are still on the mainland. The Colonel is supposed to join us in about. . ." he made a show of looking at his watch, "two hours, plus the hike to the village."

"So we have nothing to worry about from these people."

"These pipsqueaks? Pfft." Rodney waved away the comment. "Please. The mice tower over their intellect. Their physique leaves much to be desired, I mean, you thought Colonel Sheppard was thin? These people make toothpicks look like the pillars of the Coliseum."

"I don't think Colonel Sheppard is too thin."

"I see. I suppose then that you think I'm a bit overdone."

"We've already had this discussion, Rodney. I'll not be sucked back in to it."

"No, but I can't believe you said that in front of Kate!" His expression was one of total embarrassment. "I mean come on, be a little discreet, huh?"

"I apologize. But really, Rodney, look at the shirts we have to wear! They don't exactly hide any extra weight!"

"You said ten pounds! There is no way I've put on ten pounds!"

"I said half a stone, Rodney. That's seven."

"Seven pounds?"

"I might have exaggerated a little."

"You're damn right!" Rodney huffed. "Seven pounds. Three maybe, but seven?" He rounded again. "You need glasses, you know? That's it. You misread the chart." And his irritation propelled him over a Godzilla toe root, landing him painfully bent backwards over his pack.

Carson just shook his head with a sigh and extended his hand, pulling the disgruntled man to his feet. "Might ought to tighten those straps eh? Inertia and all that lot." He gave Rodney a smart pat on the shoulder and marched on, inordinately pleased with himself.

The jubilation at getting one up on his friend ebbed as he saw the situation he was walking into, literally. The people were small, but not midget status by any means. They looked half-starved, in some cases little more than walking skeletons. Their movements were slow, their bodies covered in filthy robes and blankets, threadbare and useless. It reminded Carson of his studies into the leper colonies of late fifteenth century Britain. He stopped, unwilling to walk any further, allowing the scene to take hold. "Bloody hell."

"That about sums it up," Rodney said at his shoulder.

"I didn't bring enough supplies for all this! I thought it was one man who was afflicted, not an entire village!"

"They just wanted help for one man, though it does look like the entire population is about to drop dead at any minute." He rolled his shoulder, relieving the tension from his own pack. "Don't see why they find it so all-fired important to save their leader if there's no one to lead."

"You really can sound heartless, Rodney."

"Well, look at them! I mean come on! Unless you're Doctor Livingstone with some sort of miracle cure, there's little to do here."

"That doesn't mean we can't try." He left Earth for the Pegasus galaxy because he wanted a new challenge. This was a new challenge.

Should've kept his bloody mouth shut.

They parted company with the protective shelter of the forest and entered the semi-clearing. The shacks and hovels were as devastated as the people that inhabited them. The natives walked past, peering at the two men from beneath their coverings. Nobody seemed overly curious, and no one spoke. It was disconcerting, walking amongst probably thirty people who mingled outside, yet no one seemed to notice each other. "It's like walking among the living dead," Rodney muttered, and his tone revealed his discomfort.

"Were they this bad the last time you were here?" Carson whispered.

"I can't really say, that would be the Colonel's call. I was on the other side of the forest we just hiked through, working on a device they used for some sort of sound healing." He frowned. "Apparently the machine's busted again. Old, archaic looking thing, I meant to throw together a better version for them, but we had that whole business with the Wraith and all. This is the first time I've been back."

"What sort of sound healing?"

Rodney halted, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously as one inhabitant did stop to study him closely before moving on. "Okay. The best I can figure, this is a machine that produced a sort of healing vibration for the sick. A constant tone, much like the way saying "Om" is supposed to affect your well being by attuning your own individual vibrations to those of the universe."

"And I suppose you feel there is no scientific basis for this."

Rodney's hand fell. "You surprise me, Carson! Surely you've heard of the holistic movement, they're using energy healing these days, for Christ sake!" He snorted. "My sister went to a Reiki session, said she felt better than she had in years. Of course that was after a day with a splitting headache, which the healer called, 'detox', but I say after suffering a headache like that anything would feel good."

Which sounded like a no. "That said. . ."

"That said. . .they use this device to help settle them and allow deeper healing. This is how I understand it anyway, I guess I better go check it out while you conjure your voodoo."

"My medical practice is no more voodoo-istic that your sound device, Rodney."

"I'm sorry, did you say, 'sound device' or 'sound advice'?" He smiled.

Carson ignored him and pointed to a large hut. "In there, I take it?"

"Well, it's the least decimated, so I'd say yes." There was a large man eyeing Rodney from the entrance, large meaning he actually came to Rodney's chest, but the stare he was given showed that the height would only compliment his ability to chop Rodney off at the knees. All the more reason to let the medical doctor in first, as he was less likely to chop _him_ off at the knees, and if Rodney turned out to be the unlucky victim, there would be someone to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

The interior smelled like rancid milk. Rodney's eyes started tearing immediately, and he waved his hand before him uselessly. Carson was kneeling beside a man the size of a child, yet looked about one hundred and fifty, give or take a few hours. Rodney coughed and eased his way over to the side of the hut, his eyes cutting up and down the shelf of native oddities. Well, they were damned odd, no question about that. The skull of a large bird stared back, as well as what really looked like shrunken heads, but what did they know of shrunken heads in the Pegasus galaxy?

Carson was talking softly to the man tending the ill leader, and this man rose to greet Rodney. "You've been here before, you helped us greatly."

"Yes," Rodney muttered, not-so-discreetly wiping his hand on his vest after their contact, "doesn't seem to be working though. What'd you do to it?"

The man shrugged and spread his hands, palms upwards. "We have done nothing! It stopped. We grow weak without it."

Rodney eyed the man in disbelief. "What do you mean?"

"Several have died since it stopped. We were not protected."

"Okay, see, this is information I didn't have before. Protected from what?"

"You were not told?"

"Oh, for the love of. . .if I was told, I wouldn't be asking you, now would I? The device produced a steady sonic tone that assists in securing the health of the people, and that's all I know. There was no mention of any protection."

"It does help, by protection. It keeps out the Wearden."

Rodney gave his head a shake. "I'm sorry. . .the what?"

"The Wearden inhabits the barren lands beyond. Where the trees end, his reign begins. We dare not go to the barren lands, and the Wearden dares not enter as long as we are protected."

"This Wearden have large ears or something? Can't stand the noise?"

"I don't know, I have never seen it."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Then how do you know it exists, hm?"

"Because since there is no protection three of our people have died."

"Which could be a result of the protection itself not working, look, just show me where it is and let me look at it, okay?" Rodney glanced up at Carson, who was listening to his patient's heartbeat, and waved him away. "Right." He gestured to the flap, all to happy to get out of that nauseating hell hole. "After you?"


	3. Chapter 3

Not only was the device not working, it was toast. Rodney sighed, and wiped his hands on a grungy cloth that had been provided by his guide, a man, he realized, who had remained nameless. He frowned down at him. "Who are you?"

"Tiran Clay."

He waved his rag at the device. "Tiran, do you understand anything about this machine?"

"Only that it does what it does."

"I guess that stands to reason or you would have fixed it by now." The rag was slapped onto the side of the strange sausage-shape. Rodney picked up his discarded jacket and pulled out a powerbar, ripping off the outer wrapping with a practiced hand, blind to the sudden look of curiosity in his companion's eyes. He took a bite and talked around it. "This thing normally operates at an EM frequency that is currently being compromised by that." He pointed to a larger piece of machinery, and stared at it, his finger not wavering. "What _is_ that?"

"I don't know. It has been here for as long as I can remember, but it has never been activated."

"Well, it's working now, because it is countermanding the efficiency of this machine, which in return is burning itself out just trying to work. It's like that machine," again he pointed, "sucks the life out of this one," he pointed to his project, "and I don't remember _that_ one," he pointed again, "being here the last time I was. So obviously it hasn't been here for as long as you can remember, unless you have a sadly short memory or the intergalactic version of Alzheimer's."

Tiran looked confused. "I promise you. . .oh! Wait." He walked over to the other side of the small containment area and removed a large blanket. He covered the machine and turned back expectantly.

Rodney raised his chin. "Yes, well. . .that does look familiar, now that you mention it. Wonder how I missed that before." He returned to his work. "Guess I just wanted to get off this god-forsaken world." His hand jerked as the power bar was snatched away. "Hey! HEY! You little thief, get back here!" But the man was gone, and so was his afternoon snack. "Fine! See if I help you now, you ungrateful little troll!" He flung open the flap to the sad excuse for a shelter and walked out, then realized he had no idea where to go. "Crap." He tapped his radio. "Carson?"

The voice that came back sounded weary. "Yes, Rodney?"

"Look can you send someone out here to get me? My elf just ran off with his Christmas present."

"I'm kinda busy right now, Rodney!"

"And I'm kinda stuck in the middle of nowhere! All you have to do is. . ." he stopped as sharp speech cut him off, and he realized Carson wasn't talking to him. "Carson? You okay?"

"Not now, Rodney! I'll call you back when I have a moment!"

Rodney fumed. "Fine! I'll just sit and wait with the wildebeests, shall I?"

"If that suits you. Carson out."

Rodney sputtered. "Wh-what? Carson out? That's it? Of all the. . ." but he realized no one was listening. The area fell silent, except for a faint drone he hadn't noticed before. It grew louder in pitch and volume, and Rodney realized a fraction of a second too late that it came from the larger machine, just before it exploded.

"I said hold him still!" Carson was trying his hardest not to panic. Dammit, he'd walked into this situation blind, he couldn't believe they didn't give him any more information than merely to help cure a sick man. He had brought a rather elaborate assortment of medicines with him, but without more knowledge of the small man's physiology, he was reluctant to give him anything further. The most he had done was to administer a small dose of a very mild painkiller, which had calmed him for a few moments. Now he was in convulsions.

The man near him, his assistant for all he was worth, was standing aside in terror. Carson tried to keep the leader still, inserting a stick between the poor man's clenched teeth to prevent him biting his tongue in two. "I need help here, man! If you're not gonna help, find someone who will!" The man ran out, terrified, and Carson let loose a string of well-thought out, tried and true curses. Two more men entered and bordered them, one on each side. They knelt on the leader, which Carson thought a bit crude, but it got the job done. He prepped a shot, and injected. The leader instantly stilled.

Carson sat back wearily and rubbed at his eyes. What he wouldn't give for a cup of tea. Or coffee. A four hour hike followed by a half hour physical struggle deserved a break.

He stood and nodded his thanks to the men who quickly filed out. They seemed healthier than the others, which made Carson wonder if the illness they were suffering from was genetic. He walked out into the fresh air, glad to be rid of the putrid stench, glad to feel the sun on his face. The faint sound of an explosion jarred his sense of peace, and he puzzled over the sound, until he remembered what Rodney had been up to. . .and that he had been left alone. Accompanied by three bystanders, two of whom had just helped him in the medical situation, he ran towards the sound.

They knew just where to go. It took a good forty minutes by foot, which left Carson so tired he was unable to see straight. The view from the hill showed debris below them. They sprinted down, sliding and slamming into trees and branches. Carson wrapped his arms around a large trunk and swung around it, then skidded to a halt. His eyes surveyed the damage quickly before falling on one black boot sticking out from beneath the rubble. He launched himself toward that boot, cursing himself for not calling Rodney back, or sending out help. The boot wasn't the only body part exposed, Rodney's face and one arm could be seen on the other side of the large chuck of metal that covered his body. "My God. . .Rodney?" Carson knelt beside him, carefully turning his friend's head towards him. The pulse was steady. "Can you hear me? Rodney!" He pushed at the metal, and looked at the three men for help, but they were staring at the space where the sonic device used to be. "I need your help here, I can't move this." He turned back to Rodney, who was starting to moan, then shot a glare at the immobile men. "I said I need your help!" He sighed in frustration and returned his attention to Rodney. "Come on, wake up."

The groan was pitiful, but Carson was glad to hear it. "C'sn?"

"Take it easy. You'll be fine, just relax." He stood and tried once again to shift the metal, but it wasn't budging. He walked over to the men and slapped one of them on the shoulder angrily, then gestured. "Do you mind?"

They seemed to get the hint, and distributed themselves around the pinned man. Carson counted off, and they started to lift when a cry from Rodney stopped them. "What is it?"

"My hand!" He was fully coherent with pain. "God . . . you're tearing off my hand!"

Carson cursed and paused, but was forced to settle the weight back down. "Dammit," he swore softly, and carefully stepped over Rodney's head, leaning down to look underneath the metal. Rodney's hand was near the edge, pierced through by a shard.

Carson sat back and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Okay." He thought for a moment, but couldn't come up with an answer. "I'm calling Atlantis."

"No," came the breathy answer.

"Rodney, you need more help than I can provide, and more than I think these people are capable of!" He shifted and peered underneath once again. That particular side had several pieces that jutted into the ground, which was good, otherwise Rodney would have been crushed. As it was, Carson wasn't sure just how he managed to survive the blast, although by looking at the damage, the blast had been small. What had been machinery was still in large pieces, not blown to bits. Just the same. . .by laying his head right beside Rodney's body he could see how the metal sat across the man's chest, and saw no blood. Good. Crossing to the opposite side, he was able to verify, on a lesser scale, that his legs escaped major injury. So it was just the hand. The only way to release it would be to lift the metal straight up while Rodney did his best to pull down, and Carson could only hope the protruding piece was not jagged. "Rodney, listen to me. This isn't going to be pleasant, okay?" He explained the plan, watching as his friend paled, and hating it. "That's the only way. Now I can call Atlantis and they can probably cut you out. . ." Which brought up another problem, one that he was reluctant to confront Rodney with.

Sheppard was overdue.

Rodney shook his head. "Too long, not like they can just beam in here."

Carson nodded. "Are you ready, then?"

"No. Gimme a minute." The voice was thin, and Carson couldn't blame him.

Time passed. "Now?"

"Another minute."

"Rodney, the rescue team could'a been here by now. . ."

"All right. Do it."

"Right." Carson lay on his belly right beside the stricken man and reached underneath the metal, his hands steadying Rodney's. He nodded at the men, who positioned themselves right over them. "Here we go. Straight up, now!"

The men heaved, and Rodney screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't quite fair, really, having a member of the exhibition down. Especially since Rodney was the only other member with him. Night had fallen, and Sheppard had yet to show. Not only that, but Carson was unable to make contact with Atlantis. A four hour hike through the forest in the dark was out of the question. All Carson could do was wait for his patients to rise.

Rodney was first, and true to form. "Oh. . .SHIT!" He sat up and curled his good hand around his injured one. "Ow!" This was in response to the very visible bruising on his chest, which had been bared while Carson examined him. "Christ. . ." was his thought about the shooting pain in his right leg.

"Are you quite finished?" Carson nudged Rodney over with his hip before sitting beside him on the makeshift cot.

"Probably not." Rodney frowned as he took in the scene. "These people not believe in air freshener?"

"With your flowery personality who needs it? I don't suppose I dare ask how you're feeling."

"Like crap! How do you expect me to feel?" His snapped response dulled as he recalled the events that caused so much pain. He looked down at his expertly bandaged hand, and noticed the faint sheen of the rub that had been spread on his chest. His eyes met Carson's. "Thanks."

"I'm sure you'd of done the same for me." He gently clapped his friend's shoulder. "What happened?"

"I don't know. Elf-man ran off with my power bar, next thing I knew the whole world blew up."

Carson frowned. "You don't think he knew, do you?"

"That kid? He did good to find his way out of his mother's womb." Rodney winced.

"I gave you a little something for pain, but I'm running a bit low."

"So it's me or him then, is it?" Rodney signaled the sleeping man with his chin. "How is he?"

"Not good. Resting, but I doubt he's going to make it."

Rodney actually seemed a bit sobered by the fact. "What about these other people? What's wrong with them?"

"I'm not certain, but I believe it is genetic. I've seen several generations that are perfectly healthy, and I can only hope they are related."

"Carson, in a place this small, everyone is related."

"Meaning is this abnormality breeding in, or out? People of all ages are affected, it isn't just the young."

"Does it matter?" He cut off Carson's reprimand. "We came here to do a job, now let's get it done and get the hell out of here." He winced towards the doorway. "I could really use a sandwich about now."

"I'm fresh out," Carson said rather stoically as he stood. Rodney flashed him a look, realizing he was taking his personal aloofness a bit far.

"Have you rested at all?" He knew that Carson, like himself, wouldn't bother to sleep if there was a problem at hand, and knew better than to ask.

"No." Carson was sitting on a stool beside his other patient now, looking weary.

"Oh." Crap. He winced again, this time ashamed by his behavior. He tested his footing and stood carefully, noticing that Carson made no move to restrict him. So, that's how it was, then. He limped to the doorway and peered into the darkness. "You heard Tiran talk about the Wearden?"

"Who's Tiran?"

"My elf."

"Oh. Yes, I heard him."

"What do you think of it?"

The doctor stretched. "I believe it is a story to keep the kids from wandering into the forest at night."

"Nothing in it, then?"

Well, this was odd for Rodney. "Why, do you believe it?"

"With everything we've seen? Why the hell not? I'm beginning to think if the people of any particular planet tell you to stay indoors at night, then you'd better do it or become a human kabob."

"We're you thinking of taking a stroll?"

"Carson, there is no one out there. No one. Nothing is lit, there are no sounds. It's. . .eerie."

Carson rose and stood beside his friend. The night yawned back at them, solid in its stillness. "You're right. It is very dark."

"Dead. I mean, I've heard of the dead of night, but this place really has 'dead night'." He shivered. "Carson, look, fix this guy and let's leave, okay? I know I tend to get a bit overprotective when it comes to my own personal safety but. . .this place is wrong. Very, very wrong. We need to leave at very first light, and I mean before the sun comes up."

"Are you sure it's not just your paranoia speaking?"

Rodney grabbed Carson's arm as the doctor headed back to his patient. The man stopped, reading the seriousness in his eyes, the kind of seriousness that left ego behind and spoke volumes about the man within.

It was all Carson needed. "First light, then."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"And did you leave?" the man asked.

"We tried," Rodney whispered.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Carson had returned once more to the bed and lay his hand on the leader's chest, a man who remained nameless to him. No one had bothered to tell him, and to be truthful, he hadn't bothered to ask. As it stood, he doubted the leader would last through the rest of the night.

Rodney was fully dressed, checking their bags, his hand held tight to his chest. "Look, I've got all my stuff in here, what medicines can you spare right now?" He walked over to the small table and started to examine the small bottles when Carson cursed.

The leader was convulsing again.

Rodney darted to the side as Carson tore through the remaining bottles. He picked up an empty bottle and cursed. "Dammit! I'm out!"

"What?"

"I have nothing left to give him." Carson looked up as several people filed in, distracted from their tents by the noise.

"You mind?" Rodney tried to herd them out, but was unsuccessful. "I take it the colonel didn't run those meds by while I was napping?"

"I've not seen the man."

"What? Not at all?"

"That's not all. I can't get through to Atlantis either."

"And you're just now telling me this?"

"It just came up!"

"Then how the hell were we going to get back, huh?"

"I hadn't got that far!" Carson was holding the leader down, but even his weight couldn't stop the thrashing about. There was a strangled gasp, and the body fell limp.

Rodney just stared as Carson slowly backed away. The leader's eyes were open, bluer than anything they had seen, too blue to be dead. The cheeks even had a rosy gleam. He looked healthier in death than in life, which proved to be a positive sign as far as death being a rebirth. However, the villagers were not pleased, and ran back out, herding themselves into various tents and hovels, escaping the night.

Carson had backed into a chair and fell into it. Rodney looked down at him, uncertain as to what words would be appropriate, what action would soothe. He finally slumped to the floor beside him, and patted his knee with his good hand. Nothing was said, and it turned out that nothing needed to be said. They merely watched as a group of men arrived to shroud the body in a dingy red cloth, preparing it for morning burial.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning was a long time coming. Neither man slept, both were too agitated by not only the odd feeling of something being 'off', but by the constant chatter in the surrounding tents, chatter they had not heard since their arrival. The sun rose in a jaundice-colored sky. The sick yellow light filtered through pale clouds. For Rodney, everything reeked of a half-life, and he was feeling physically ill. The pain in his hand didn't help a bit, and he was on the verge of telling Carson so when both men were yanked from their tent and forced to the center of the village.

Carson found himself held by two men, facing a small group of people. The rest of the villagers formed a large circle around them. Rodney was held just to the inside, where Carson could see him, but not where he could interfere. Carson pulled his arms away, only to be grabbed even tighter. He could see the anger and confusion on Rodney's face, and had to admit he was feeling a wee bit uncertain himself.

One man stepped forward. He slowly raised a long finger and pointed at Carson, speaking in a tongue he had not heard. One glance at Rodney showed his puzzlement as well, and then he found himself flat on the ground, with something sharp poking his back. It was a staff, the one the leader kept beside his bed. Carson raised his head, and felt a foot press him back down, pinning his shoulder.

"What's happening?" Rodney sounded nervous. A turn of the head showed the man pulling towards him, a movement which one of his guards didn't seem to care for. His wrists were forced behind him, eliciting a quick cry of pain as his injured hand was abused.

"You come to help." The man was someone Carson hadn't seen before. He stood between him and his view of Rodney, who was throwing curses into the air as quickly as he could say them. "You caused pain."

"It was not my intention, I assure you," Carson said softly.

"You caused pain." He pointed behind him, targeting Rodney without looking at him. "Our way of protection is gone."

"Wait, he was trying to repair that! It exploded, it wasn't his fault! He was trying to help, just as I was."

"Our leader was very ill. Yet he did not die peacefully. You sent him down the unstable path, rather than the clear one."

Carson had no idea what to say. How did one counter another's ideology, especially in matters of death? "All I can say is, I'm really, really sorry. I wish things could have been done differently. If I had the proper supplies, more idea of what was happening. . ." But that was shifting the blame, and he refused. "Look, I take full responsibility for what has happened. I wasn't prepared. I apologize."

"If you were prepared, would our leader have lived?"

Carson decided the best action was to tread carefully. "It is possible, but to be truthful, I believe he was too far gone."

"So instead you interrupt a peaceful departure."

"It wasn't intentional! I had no idea he would have such a reaction to the medicine!"

"Carson!" Rodney hissed, and Carson realized, tardily, that he'd just dug himself a rather large hole.

The men raised his hand, and Rodney was shoved into the circle. Carson noticed his hands were now bound, and it was all the physicist could do not to fall to his knees. He glared at the man holding Carson down. "I knew this was a mistake," he muttered, "I knew it when Elizabeth first said we were coming here. I could have had a sonic device that suited their purpose within a day, but I honestly didn't think I was coming back here."

"Rodney, is there something you're not telling me? Because now might be a good time to hear it, although a bit belated." He winced as the man's foot pressed harder on his shoulder.

"Listen, let the man up, he didn't do anything wrong! If anything, I was wrong through neglect." Rodney's steely eyes met the man who now stood before him. "I could have arranged things where you would have an unlimited supply of protection. I chose not to."

"And why is this?"

Rodney's jaw clenched. "I don't know. But there is something about this place. I thought maybe I was crazy last time because no one else sensed it, but now that I'm in the village. . .I never want to come back."

"With your help, there will no longer be a village to return to." Rodney suddenly found himself flat on his back beside Carson. He yelled out as he landed on his injured hand, and clammed up as the large man who had eyed him upon their initial arrival knelt on his chest, and tipped a knife at his throat.

"WAIT! Wait. . ." Carson tried his best to raise up, ignoring the pain of the staff in his back. The knife moved threateningly, and he paused. "We can still build another protection device, can't we? We can still help your people. Am I right?" He angled his question towards Rodney, who was in obvious pain.

"Sure," he huffed, unable to breath easily. "Can have it here tomorrow."

"That is too late."

"It's the best I can do!"

"No. Your companion will pay his price, as you will pay yours. For you, a box within a hill. You will be locked in to die the slow death we will suffer though your negligence." Rodney paled slightly. "And you," he addressed Carson, "you will provide a cushion for our leader's grave."

It was as dire a threat as he'd ever heard. Carson's eyes closed, and he heard Rodney mumble, "Any time now, Colonel." But there was no rescue.

Carson was raised to his feet as the body was carried out. He saw a mound of dirt in the distance, and a sick feeling grew like a cancer in his gut. Rodney was still pinned, unable to move or see what was happening. He wasn't looking at anything, really, even when the defacto leader knelt down beside him. The knife was raised, and angled.

All rational thought fled. Maybe it was the mound of dirt, or the ill sun, or the fact that the trees cast no shadows. Maybe it was his headache. Maybe it was the way Rodney closed his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable. He could see Rodney's pack at the entrance to their tent, and knew his gun lay beside it. What the villagers did not know, was that this medical doctor was also packing.

His gun whipped out, and he circled, keeping the detested weapon at arm's length. It served its purpose, people were starting to back away. Carson aimed at the man holding his friend, and he slowly rose, as the new leader slowly backed away. Rodney caught his breath and rolled to his knees, then to his feet. Carson stood just in front of him, guiding him backwards towards his pack. "Nae," he said, his accent thickening in fear, "I've tired to be reasonable. Ye've suffered a great loss, and I'm desperately sorry. But you'll not hurt me nor my friend here, so I suggest you just let us go." He was using his best authoritative voice, the one he used to get overly large soldiers to submit to testing. They backed against their tent, where Rodney managed to reach down and grab his pack, holding it awkwardly behind him. "Get my things," Carson muttered, and Rodney did so, but only because they were just inside the entrance. Carson took the pack, his weapon not wavering. The people just watched, not really scared, but more curious. Actually, if anything, they looked empty.

"My wrists," Rodney said quietly, and Carson shook his head.

"There's a small knife in my pack, but. . ."

"Right, let's get clear of this first, shall we?"

Carson nodded and started to walk. They headed towards the trees, keeping a careful eye on the people who watched them, quite disturbingly, rather like they were either uncertain that their party meant to leave, or that they had supreme confidence in recapturing them. They turned slowly, expressionless, most still covered in rags but some more exposed. Rodney recognized Tiran, and he looked the same as the others.

"Bloody hell, let's go," Carson said, taking the packs once they got to the path.

And the raged charge that bellowed behind them sent them to their heels.

They whipped through the brush, hearing the cries of those pursuing, knowing that they were outnumbered. But it was apparent that their illness slowed them, and the two men quickly gained ground, enough to where Carson was able to pull Rodney aside and go for his knife. He sawed through the rope, noticing Rodney's injury bleeding again, but said nothing. They hurried on, passing trees that by all rights should have been various shades of green, but instead were grey. Carson felt himself slowing, even as he pulled Rodney along. The air was growing thicker, harder to breathe in. And as they slowed, the others gained.

Rodney fell to his knees, felt Carson pull him up again, and knew the other man had little run left in him. They hid behind a thick clump of bushes, hearing the people approach. Rodney had his gun ready, and he saw Carson fumble with his. There was a sharp crack near them, and Carson fired, hoping to scare them away. He had intended to fire into the air. He knew that. Knew that. But the body that fell down the hill from his shot stilled him, froze him, and forever seared itself in his memory.

It was a tiny child. His chest was blown open.

Carson stood in shock. Rodney couldn't breathe, didn't want to, because that child was close to them, and the smell of blood was his. He braced Carson as the doctor wavered, then tried to run to him. "NO! No, Carson, don't, it's too late. It's too late, come on, we have to keep going." He patted his friend's arm firmly. "Come on."

And that was when it happened.

"He shot a child?"

"He didn't mean to. It just happened." Rodney swallowed thickly. "That was his last coherent memory, god, why did it have to be that?"


	6. Chapter 6

Rodney felt a weight on him that he couldn't push away, and fired blindly into the air, screaming, but not understanding why. He fired until he had no more bullets, then shoved at the body that lay across him. It rolled, and Rodney blanched. "Oh. . .SHIT! Oh god. . .god god god. . ." he waved everywhere over the body, searching for a way to stop the bleeding without using his own hands. Carson was staring, his eyes rolling, but not seeing anything. His chest was crimson.

"Okay, okay, I got this, hang on, just hang on. . ." Rodney ripped off his jacket and pressed it to the man's chest. Carson's breath caught, and he managed to focus on Rodney.

"Keep. . .pressure. . ."

"Yeah, yeah, got it." He heard more noises behind him. "Dammit, they're coming again. . ."

"Go."

"Be serious."

"Rodney. . ."

"No! The answer is no, now just. . .shut up, okay?" He raised the jacket and peeked underneath, then pressed harder.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"And you carried him."

"We couldn't stay where we were. I had to get us where they were afraid to go." Rodney rubbed the back of his neck. Sorrowful eyes kept straying to his friend. He could swear he saw that thick chest move. Swear to it.

"You were either very brave, or very foolish, and I'll let you be the judge of that."

Rodney pulled his eyes from his friend. "Where are you from?"

The man looked bewildered. "Here. Where else?"

"No, I mean. . .you speak like we do. Back on Earth. In another galaxy, now, I know that there are people here who are of the same race, or similar enough, but you speak as though you've been to earth recently."

"I have traveled far and wide. This is not my only home, only my origin."

Rodney gave his head a small shake. "How?"

The man smiled. "It is better you do not know."

That couldn't be good. "What's your name?"

The man raised his chin. "My name is Lan. I am Wearden."

Rodney froze, only his eyes had the audacity to blink. "Wearden? Really?" he asked in a small voice.

"Yes. You've heard of me?"

The nod was faint. "Oh, little bits here and there, primarily that you are exactly what I should avoid out here."

"I see." There was a small laugh. "Perhaps they are intelligent, after all."

That made absolutely no sense. "What exactly is a Wearden?"

"You will find out soon enough, I'm afraid. Now you should get some sleep."

"You know, with this new information, I'm not sure I can. I'll just. . .keep watch."

"Over a body that won't move? He's not going to run out and leave you." The Wearden smiled. "But do as you like. I must go out soon, you will be alone. I will see if the people have braved the barren, thought I do believe they have probably turned tail to run home once they realized what you've done. Very foolish indeed."

"Thank you," Rodney muttered sarcastically. Lan retreated to another section of the cavern, leaving Rodney alone with his friend.

Correction.

A dead body.

That didn't help either.

Trying to just tell himself that the body was no longer Carson didn't help. Saying it was didn't help. There was no way to fool himself from his extreme grief, and he was so good at playing the odds and mixing sequences to bid his wishes. Even if the sums didn't add up to his liking he could talk his way around it, pull a truth out of a hat. But this. . .that was too permanent for his taste. There was nothing that could be juggled around.

He rose slowly and crossed over to his friend. It took some effort, but he managed to close the lids. The body was too cold, like putty. Too white, almost grey. Like the village. It was hard to believe this shell had even held life and as recently as a day ago. Now. . .Rodney folded in on himself and fought back the tears. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, "god, I'm so sorry. I knew we shouldn't have come here, I – I want to fix it and I can't. . .I'm sorry." He looked at that face, placed his hand on the still chest, and allowed himself to cry.

The Wearden watched from the shadows.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was no such thing as sleep. He was just passing the time with his eyes closed, waiting for the sun to rise once again so he could take Carson back to Atlantis, though he still had yet to figure out how he was planning on doing it. Carrying him would be more difficult. Maybe a sled of sorts could be rigged, something. . .god, what was this, what kind of thought process was this? And where the hell was Sheppard? Some friend. If he had just shown up on time, they would have the medicine, the leader would have died peacefully, and they would have gone on their merry way. Talk about trust. He'd better have a damn good explanation, like he couldn't come because he was lying on his own deathbed or something.

He gave up resting and sat up, hearing his bones creak and pop. Maybe he was too old for gate travel. Well, no, General O'Neill had several years on him when he was still gate hopping, and Sheppard had a year or two, and was as spry as they came. Of course he was military issue, popped fresh out of a government prize box. All Rodney had to do was keep his vision and brain intact, he didn't worry so much about his body. Sheppard had to do all three, and lately seemed to be failing miserably in the brain department.

He had caught a glimpse of the Wearden as he went out, warning Rodney to stay inside. There was more soup, which he sipped a little of and set aside. Other than that, the only thing to do was sleep, or pretend. He could let the shallow breaths ease him in, like the steady rhythm of the metronome on his piano when he was a child. The breathing grew stronger, and he relaxed into it, matched it, letting it soothe him. . .

Matched it? That would imply two. He turned.

Carson was staring at him.


	7. Chapter 7

"FUCKING CHRIST!" Rodney yelled as his body tightened, his lungs prepared for a terrified scream that never came. It wasn't right, it just wasn't right, Carson was dead, dead dead dead, and the dead didn't breathe, as much as he wanted them to, the dead just did - not - breathe! He gasped in fear, clutching the dirt as though to use it as a weapon. He desperately needed to pee. His chest expanded and threatened to explode as those bright blue eyes blinked, and focused.

"R-Rod. . .ney," the voice croaked.

Rodney gaped, his eyes watering, his head shaking from side to side in denial as he scooted back. This was a cruel joke, the cruelest any being could play on anybody, anywhere. . .ever. "No! Go away!" His voice was a growl, he could feel it deep within his soul. "Whatever you are, GO THE FUCK AWAY!"

"Rodney. . ."

Alien possession. It had to be. "SHUT UP! Oh God, just leave him alone!"

". . .can't move. . ."

Rodney's breath hitched. He was pressed so far back against the rock wall he knew he was about to meld with it. He tore his eyes from the morbid sight, those blue, blue eyes staring at him, blinking. . .

He was blinking, and confused. Rodney had to look back. Good – good god, his head was turning, and it was so like Carson that Rodney leaned forward slightly. The head turned back, his vision clearer, and the expression was one of utter pain. "Rodney? What's happened?"

The accent melted over him like velvet, though the speech was forced and labored. Rodney decided breathing would ruin the illusion so he refrained from doing so. Instead he leaned forward slightly, his good hand stretched in front, bracing him. He was ready to jerk back at the slightest notion of not-Carsonness coming out. This. . .this was too real. "Who are you?" he choked, his voice low with distrust. "I'll have you know I don't believe in God or the Devil, so I know you're not one of them. Who. . ." his anger grew, "ARE you?"

Carson's brows furrowed slightly. His chest rose more and more as he took in deeper and deeper breaths, the oxygen putting the very slightest hint of color back into his skin as his blood pumped.

Rodney slowly crawled forward, limping along with one hand. He stopped periodically, then continued until he reached his friend. And carefully, ever, ever so timidly, he reached out and touched his arm. It wasn't warm.

But it was warmer.

And the eyes that looked at him definitely belonged to Carson.

Rodney just stared, his attention roaming over the body and back to the pale face, the dry lips, the disoriented eyes that followed his every move with confusion. Once again he reached out, this time cupping Carson's cheek with his hand. He shifted until he leaned over him, protecting him. His hand drifted down to the chest, feeling each breath as it fattened the lungs, and just beyond that, a steady thump. A heartbeat.

Rodney was trembling. He almost laughed, his smile lingering before fading back into shock. They stared at each other for several moments, then Rodney gathered his friend into his arms, and cried.

He held him until the pain in his hand was too great, and then he shifted the body to lie in his arms. He couldn't stop staring, and he was scared to speak the word, scared that the wrong person would answer. But he had to know. "Carson?"

Carson just looked up at him, still confused and disoriented. His mouth moved slightly, and formed more words. "Are you crying?"

A laugh forced its way through. "No, I'm not. And don't ever tell anyone you thought that."

"What happened to me?" It was painfully obvious that Carson knew something drastic had happened. Rodney wasn't a crier.

"What hap– you don't remember?" Carson shook his head slightly, making Rodney raise his tear-stained face to the ceiling in wonderment. "You died, Carson," Rodney whispered, choking on the words.

"I did not."

"You – you," he laughed again, certain he was going mad, or that this was a crazed nightmare. He sobered and looked at Carson with an expression that made the sick man wary.

"What it is?"

"I can't do this." He scrambled out from under his friend, carefully laying him back on the blanket and covering him to the chin. "I'm sorry. . .oh god."

"Can't do what?" The voice carried from the far tunnel, and Lan appeared. He took in the sight, and hesitated.

Rodney didn't. He stormed towards the man, furious. "What the hell did you do?"

"I don't know what you're. . ."

His hand flung toward Carson. "That! That's not natural! He was dead! DEAD! How did you do this? Wh-why did you do this?" He collapsed against the wall.

The Wearden's brows merely raised as he glanced towards the covered man, who was staring back. "Hmph," was all he said, and casually walked over to his things.

Rodney was far from appeased. "Don't walk away from me! I want answers! Dammit, I _need_ answers! People don't just wake from the dead like that!"

"Would an answer make you feel better?"

Rodney tried to answer. It took a while. "I don't know."

"You ask too much." He jerked his head towards the fire. "Your friend needs soup."

"What?" he almost laughed. It was such an ordinary statement, and absurd to be thinking about. But why? He mourned his friend's death, why was he suddenly mourning his resurrection?

The Wearden's eyes were dark. "You would spit on such a wonderful gift. You wanted his life. You have it back. You want it taken from you again?"

"NO! No, I . . ."

"Then see to him and stop acting like a fool." He huffed and returned to the odd books he pulled from a bag.

Wordlessly Rodney crossed the room. Carson had drifted asleep, which didn't surprise him, and in fact satisfied him. He needed time to think, to process, to get used to not being in sorrow-mode. He had to figure this out. "He's asleep. I'm - I gotta get some air."

He had no idea the man could move as fast as he did with his grotesquely bent back. One minute Rodney was heading out, the next he found himself slammed against the pale rock, Lan's fist twisted in his shirt. "Did you not hear me earlier? I said to stay put. You dare not go outside."

"Why not?" Rodney snapped. "I was warned to avoid the Wearden. You are the Wearden. So consider yourself avoided."

"What about them?"

"They won't come out here! They avoid the barren land, remember?"

Lan's face worked in frustration, and he reached out for his staff, which leaned against the wall beside Rodney. "Fine. Come with me."

Rodney stared. "Obviously you didn't hear me. I said I was avoiding you, that implies a lack of association. Going anywhere with you implies association, which is exactly what I'm trying to avoid!"

Lan walked up to him, glared up at him. "I said, come with me."

"Okay," Rodney found himself answering, meekly.

They walked out into the night. The moon cast a white glow on everything it touched, and looked astoundingly clean compared to the dismal illness they had found. Rodney found himself taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh. His tension eased slightly.

Lan placed one hand on Rodney's shoulder, and pointed with the other. "There. Watch."

There was nothing to see. Not for a while. Then, the darkness moved.

Not only did it move, it whined, cried, screeched with the voices of a thousand shrill birds. It folded in on itself, and outwards, like geometric shapes, like angry black wings. It grew as it approached, filling the air with the musty smell of an old attic, or a tomb.

Rodney didn't know whether to be scared or fascinated. "What is that?"

"That," Lan said quietly, "is Wearden."

The cries filled the valley below them, stirring the loose sands, creating clouds of dust which coated the Wearden and made it glow in the light. It ate at the space around it, filling it with darkness. It glinted as the wings flapped and flexed, the motion mesmerizing and disturbing. "Is that just one creature?"

"The Wearden is many and one."

"Yeah. Thanks for clarifying."

Lan shrugged.

The Wearden grew, filling the space below them. It descended with a cry, landing on the ground, over another cry that made Rodney's hair stand on end. "What the hell was that?"

"It has found a way to feed. We must go." Rodney felt himself being pulled from the sight and the odd, inhuman shrieks. He was glad to return to the place of his torment, for his confusion was better dealt with than the sight he just saw.


	8. Chapter 8

Carson was awake again, and this time Rodney swallowed hard before walking right to him. "You didn't sleep very long."

"I'm tired, but not sleepy." His voice had improved, but only sightly. "My whole body aches."

"I suspect you have the largest case of pins and needles known to man."

"Everywhere. Aches."

"Well, waking from the dead will have a tendency to do that, I suspect."

"Are ye angry at me?"

Rodney's head snapped around from preparing a bowl of soup. "No! Why on earth would I be angry?"

"You seem angry."

How could he explain? It was all happening too fast, way too fast, dead one minute, alive the next, possible death lingering outside. God no, he wasn't angry, not at Carson. Never at Carson.

"I just want to go home." Rodney sat beside his friend, swirling the bowl in the soup. "Can you move yet?"

Carson raised his little finger.

"No curling events, then. That's too bad, I found some stones outside that can be sanded down." Lan sat watching them, offering no help, and Rodney understood that he was on his own. He set the bowl down and pulled the man upright.

Carson wasn't happy with the sudden movement. "Rodney, for god's sake!"

"Sorry! Sorry." He wrapped his arms around Carson's chest and proceeded to drag him to the wall, where he propped him. Ran back for the bowl, returned to find Carson slumped uncomfortably. There was only one way to hold Carson and steady the bowl, so Rodney shifted behind him, with Carson reclining back on his chest, and carefully raised the bowl to his lips. "Tastes pretty good, really. But you'll have to guide me somehow, my angle's shot."

"This feels bloody absurd," Carson slurred.

"Better than it looks, I bet." He looked up at Lan. "So, while we're all here picnicking, you want to fill me in on the background? You said you're Wearden. How come you're not like that?" He nodded his head towards the exit.

"Oh, but I am." And he smiled.

Rodney's lips quirked. "No, I don't think so. For one I see no feathers, and two, you haven't tried to eat me yet. I assume there was a man down there for lunch?"

"He was a village sacrifice. The Wearden will grow stronger, for a time."

"But I thought the people in the village were the Wearden."

"They are."

"You see this?" Rodney set down the bowl and pointed to his shaking head. "This means lack of understanding, which, seeing as how I generally comprehend matters much faster than the average person, means that you are not expressing yourself adequately." Lan looked at Carson, obviously bemused. Rodney sighed. "Okay, layman's terms. I - don't - get - it."

"What is there to get?"

"The point! An answer!" He raised the bowl once more at Carson's prodding. "What about Carson? You haven't explained that either!"

"Again, what is there to explain?"

"Oh for. . ." he broke away to concentrate on feeding his friend, noticing for the first time that he was using one hand to assist with the bowl. "Hey! You moved!"

"What'dya think I poked you with?"

"I'm ignoring that." Rodney looked at Lan. "I want answers."

"You want everything explained. Always want to understand things, to know how things work and why. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because that's who I am! Because I work with the science, because I study how and why things happen. I need to know."

"No. That is not who you are." He pointed toward the mouth of the cave. "That is who you are. It is who we all are."

"Oh. . ." Rodney chuckled, "oh no. No. That may be what you are, but we aren't. I mean it isn't us, we aren't it. . .that."

The Wearden leaned forward. "But you are exactly that. You feed. You are a tangled mess. You are ill, you desire what you can not have, and you can not let go. You can't let nature take it's course, you must always know, know know!"

"And what about Carson, huh? I think nature took a bit of a U-turn there!"

"I wasn't dead," Carson muttered. "I would know if I were dead."

"You were dead," Rodney snapped.

"And you can't stand being wrong." Lan shook his head.

"He was dead! You said so yourself!"

"You believed it to be so. Who was I to argue?"

His head was spinning. "As I recall, your rather insensitive comment made me realize for certain that. . ." Rodney swallowed and looked down at his friend, who was drinking from the bowl again. It was probably the disorientation; he seemed unaware of what was going on, except for the odd lucid moment. "Look, I don't want to argue about this. I just want to know how, I. . .I need to know." His eyes were pleading, and his grip on Carson tightened ever so slightly.

The Wearden considered it. He rose. "No. You do not."

"What? Wait a minute," he carefully shifted and propped Carson against the wall, quickly surrounding him with small stools and blankets before following Lan. "You can't say everything you just said, and not give me an answer."

"For your sake, man, I dare not." Lan turned. "You want everything. You want the world at your fingertips, you want to be the one to hold the jewel. You are a good man, but you are immature. This knowledge, is not for you." He used his stick to poke at the ground. "Can you understand that?"

"No! Surely someone of my intelligence can. . ."

"You see?" He lifted an object from the dirt floor, and pocketed it. "That is exactly what I am talking about. You are like that," he again pointed outside, "you feed and feed until you are ill, and still it is not enough."

"Why are they sick?"

"Because they do not understand the simplest concept. I tried to teach them. But they consume themselves. They make themselves ill with their beliefs, they think they can rise and fly, but every time they entangle and fall to the ground. They are restricted. They can not grow, and can not heal."

Rodney had never heard anything like that before, and he wasn't certain he understood. "How can this happen? How can the thoughts and feelings of a people manifest itself in this way?"

"How was your friend brought back to life?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

Lan placed a friendly hand on Rodney's shoulder, and waited until the man calmed down. "There is so much that can not be explained. To try would kill it. Just accept that things happen, and that you, Rodney McKay, can not understand it all, nor were you meant to."

A quote tickled the back of his mind. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt in your philosophy." He shook his head in annoyance. "Highschool lit, sophomore year. Can't believe I remember that."

"You find many things unbelievable, that is your problem." Lan stepped back and nodded toward the wall. "Your friend is sliding."

"What? Shit!" Rodney rushed over and caught Carson's head just before it cracked on the side of a stool.

Icy blue eyes stared at him. "You stopped feeding me."

"Oh, uh, sorry, thought you had it under control." He stabilized the man and once again raised the bowl, noticing that Lan was no longer in the room.

His sigh was long and aggravated, and he tipped the bowl to his friend's lips.


	9. Chapter 9

Three days in, Rodney had to go for a walk. He made sure there was plenty of day light left. Carson was better, moving around a little at a time. He wasn't sure if his body just had to get used to working again, or if Carson was ill, or what the problem was. There was no Dummies guide for rehabilitating the formerly dead.

_Bet they write one._

He hiked down the yellowish rocks to the trees below. Not an active man by nature, the effort cost him, and he stopped to catch his breath. The wind rushed by in the trees above him, and the temperature was pleasant. It was a far cry from the area he had fled, though the land still had a touch of illness to it. The yellow was just too yellow. He pushed away from the trunk and walked out onto the barren.

It was cracked in places, with other spots filled with dust pools. He could see the copse that hid the path to the village on the other side of the barren, a mere sliver of green over the tan ground.

The sun beat down, but wasn't hot. It too was a shadow of what it should have been.

He felt a presence behind him, and his head tipped back to face the sky in annoyance. "How did I know you'd come out here," he asked, rolling around to face Lan.

"I was curious as to what you were doing, nothing more." The bent man walked past Rodney and surveyed the land. "And I need water. You can help."

"Water? Out here? You're kidding."

The Wearden smiled. "Where do you think my supply comes from? Urination?"

"That image wasn't necessary, thank you." Rodney picked up the clay pot that had been set at his feet. "Guess you got a well, huh?"

"Now that you mention it," Lan made a show of stroking his chin and thinking, "yes." He smiled brightly and waved Rodney along. "Come, come, your friend is thirsty."

"Well, we can't keep him waiting, now can we?" Rodney smirked, and followed.

"You are having trouble coming to terms with his waking."

"I was having a hard time coming to terms with his death. This waking thing is a whole other show."

"It is a strain. You are handling it well."

"I'm not. I'm not handling it at all."

"That is what I mean."

"Are you ever going to say something that I can understand?"

"Yes." Lan pointed. "Draw water from there."

"Har-har." Rodney fastened the dark rope to the pot and lowered it down. It was heavy, and three times so coming back up. Lan just watched. Once it reached the edge, he hoisted it towards him and tipped the rim to look inside. Satisfied, he untied the rope.

"So where are you from, really?" Rodney panted as the headed back.

"I told you. Everywhere."

"You were a traveler through the gate?"

"Amongst other things."

"You're being very enigmatic."

"Thank you."

"Geez." Rodney rolled his eyes and gave up. "Look, what's with that sonic device? They said it kept you away, well, they said it kept the Wearden away, but they are Wearden as well. So what did it do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?"

"They were disillusioned. They sought remedy where none existed."

"What of the machine behind it."

"The same. Useless technology from a past time."

"So I was nearly killed for no reason."

"If you see it that way, then yes."

"And Carson? What does he get from all this? Huh?" Rodney crossed to block Lan's path. "Why good does his getting shot serve?"

Lan walked around him in annoyance. "Again, you look for answers! Some things just are! They happen."

"For no reason."

"Exactly."

"I got three words for you. Cause and Effect. Everything happens either to stimulate an event, or as a result of an event."

"True. But that doesn't give the event reason. It just is."

"You're worse than Confucius. I'm getting a headache listening to you."

"Cause and effect in action." Lan smiled.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A week had passed. Carson stood outside the cave, wrapped in a blanket against the chill of the night air. He was watching Rodney, who sat on a large stone that balanced on the edge of a cliff. Surely the stone had been there for hundreds of years, if not more. That didn't mean he wanted his friend sitting on it. "Rodney? What the devil are you doing, man?"

His head slowly turned, and his eyes widened. "Carson!" He leapt down, wincing at the impact and hesitating before limping slightly towards his friend. "What are you doing out here?"

Carson's practiced eye studied the limp before dismissing it. "Looking for you. I noticed you tend to leave the cave every evening about this time, and I was curious."

"Should you be up?"

"I'm fine, Rodney. A wee bit weak, but only movement will remedy that. What are you looking at?"

Rodney wasn't sure he wanted to share. For some reason the Wearden belonged to him and to Lan, and bringing Carson in almost seemed the equivalent to sacrilege. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"I. . .can't." He barked a short laugh. "Good god, I can't even understand it, much less explain it."

"I see." Carson's eye's roamed the skies above them. "I've been talking to Lan. He seems an interesting fellow."

"He is."

"Rodney, I know more than you think I know."

This didn't bode well. "And?"

"And you are a fool to blame yourself."

Rodney took a defensive step backwards. "What makes you think I blame myself? As much as I would have liked, I couldn't prevent your death, and _yes_, you were dead!"

"I was not. But that's not what I'm talking about." His voice raised as Rodney turned away. "You can't blame yourself for not understanding, and not having all the answers." There was no response. Rodney had walked to the edge of the cliff, and was looking over the valley. Carson sighed and joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder. "Look, I know how ya feel. We're scientists. We want to fix things, we want to understand. Lord knows I'd love to have whatever healing medicine this Lan has," he reached down and took Rodney's hand in his, slowly unwrapping it. Rodney watched as the last of the material unwound to reveal slightly pink skin, and no wound. "You know as well as I that this wound would be weeks in healing. Not a matter of days. I ask him, I talk to him when you are out, but he offers nothing to me."

Rodney looked at Carson. "How are you, really," he asked quietly.

Carson met his eyes. "Devastated."

Of course he was. He was searching for answers himself. "Annoying, isn't it?" Rodney asked in a low voice. He thrust his hand into his pocket. "He gives good talk, but it isn't helpful." He looked at his friend. "I bet you keep asking 'why'?"

"Aye. I'd like to think there is a reason." His sorrow was tangible.

"Reason? What was the reason for this entire mission, huh? And where the hell is Sheppard? Why aren't they out here looking for us?"

'I can't answer those questions, Rodney," Carson said sadly, "but I can tell you that I feel strong enough to leave. I'm ready to go home." A faint screech caught his attention, and he started. "What was that?"

The familiar mustiness filled the air. "A shadow." Rodney shook himself, and took Carson's arm. "Let's go in."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was like spoken magic. The next day the team showed up.

Sheppard walked into the cave room, his gun drawn, and balked as he saw Rodney leap to his feet as Carson slowly looked up from his position beside the fire. Sheppard visually swept the room for signs of danger, and found none. The weapon lowered. "Hey, you guys. You decided to camp and not tell anyone?"

His voice was too casual, and it was enraging. Rodney jumped to his feet before he realized that anger had taken hold, and grabbed the colonel's vest, giving him a teeth-rattling shake. "WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?"

"McKay!" Sheppard forced himself loose as Teyla and Ronon walked in. "Cool it! What's happened?"

"What's happened?" He laughed. "What's _happened_? You. . .you just walk in here and expect answers, well . . . tough. This isn't the place for it." Rodney waved him away and walked to the fire.

Sheppard had hoped for a 'Boy am I glad to see you' heroic type of reaction, not the bruised end of a battered McKay. He decided to go for a voice of rationale as he eyed the figure sitting beside the fire, draped in a blanket. Carson looked pale, drawn, older. "You okay, Doc?"

Fury had no wrath like Rodney McKay. "Okay? OKAY?" he spat. "He was DEAD, thank you. He DIED. If your sorry ass had been here when you said, none of this would have happened. He would be fine, the leader would have passed away peacefully, and I wouldn't be standing here slowly going mad!" Rodney was rounding on him, back in his face. "Okay? You fucked up!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sheppard yelled back, and it had the intended effect of making Rodney blink and check his anger. Sheppard walked over to Carson, kneeling down and checking for fever. "What's he mean, dead?"

"He says I died. Don't remember a damn bit of it."

"He was shot in the chest," Rodney supplied, and Sheppard heard the weakness in his voice. He shot Rodney a concerned look before pulling away the blanket, raising Carson's shirt and examining his chest.

Carson rather subconsciously pushed the hands away and covered himself. "I'm better."

Obviously. He looked up in shock. "Wait . . . there's no wound."

"Aye."

"You were shot, but . . . there's no wound," Sheppard clarified.

"Yes, yes, and a huge machine blew up in my face and fell on top of me, but my wound's healed too." This statement was flung at Sheppard in an accusatory manner.

"I don't understand," Sheppard said.

"Oh god. . .let's just go home," Rodney sighed, and bent to gather his things.


	10. Chapter 10

Rodney didn't see Lan again until he reached the gate. He stopped short as he caught sight of the bent figure standing underneath a tree. He really didn't want to see him again. He started to go through.

Aw, who was he kidding.

Carson caught his eye and nodded as Teyla walked through the blue horizon. Ronon was supporting him, and didn't seem happy about Rodney's delay. It was something Carson had noticed about the gentle giant, he had taken a liking to the annoying man. Somehow they had found an common interest. . .food. And it was a good enough platform. Plus, he seemed to find Rodney amusing. He was becoming rather protective of him, like a pet, and Carson could feel the hesitation as he was waved through. A glance at Sheppard showed the scientist wouldn't be left alone. Carson managed to catch the Wearden's eye, and nodded his thanks, which was returned. And they left in a puddle of blue. Rodney tried to wave Sheppard through, but he sat on the steps leading to the open gate.

Rodney sighed and faced Lan. "He's so annoying."

"He cares."

"You've been watching us."

"From afar, yes." Lan smiled.

Rodney pressed his lips together and nodded, looking back in the direction of the caverns. "I supposed I should thank you, and . . . and I do, for Carson's life."

"But. . ."

Rodney managed a smile and gave his head a small shake. "Look, I don't get it. I'm not going to pretend about this. Our mission failed miserably. We were stuck here for a week. But the things I've seen, I almost feel like all this was for a reason, and I don't believe in that crap."

"Then you are a fool."

"So everyone keeps saying." He folded his arms smugly. "Who's more the fool, the fool himself or the idiot that calls him one?"

Lan laughed and pointed at him. "You are learning! That was a good one." He reached into his pocket. "I want to give you something."

"What is it?"

He held up his hand. "A protection stone."

"Uh, no thanks, I already had one once, it nearly killed me when I couldn't remove it."

Lan looked confused. "Remove it?"

"It was stuck to my chest."

"I see. This one is not so extreme, it sits in your pocket, or on a table. When you hold it, think of think of what you have seen here." He held it up. "Do not limit yourself to your own beliefs. I think you will find life much easier to deal with." The smile was warm, the eyes sparkled.

Rodney took the stone carefully. It was an ordinary rock. He studied it, gave it a toss and caught it in a clenched fist. "Thank you." His gaze was steady. "Seriously, thanks. For everything."

The Wearden shrugged. "I did nothing. But still, you are welcome." He waved a hand towards the gate.

"McKay, come on!" Sheppard shouted from the distance.

"How rude!" Rodney muttered, spinning to wave him down. Sheppard's arms were spread, like he was wondering what was taking Rodney so long.

And he had good reason to. Rodney turned back to find he had been talking to thin air.

He shouldn't be sitting at his desk. He felt disjointed, out of phase. He felt like he should still be in that cave, where he was starting to feel at home. Where his mind flowed without obstruction. Where he wasn't having to constantly concentrate on other needs, but could service his own. The stimuli of his own office hurt him, and he couldn't understand why.

Maybe he wasn't supposed to.

He tried to balance the rock on one thin end. It reminded him of a river stone, slightly flattened, but rougher. It fit snugly into his palm, and he found himself carrying it in his pocket since his return. His dinner with Carson had been pleasant, with Carson chatting about his return to work, and the theories and rumors regarding their absence. With no war wounds to show, it was hard to convince some people of their story. Weir and Sheppard knew differently. And he had a suspicion that the others did as well, and they were deliberately being obtuse. There was little talk about the shooting, and Rodney could only hope that Carson was discussing any emotional trauma with Heightmeyer, and a little hurt that Carson wasn't talking with him about it.

Surprisingly enough, he had talked to Sheppard about it. The colonel hadn't liked the way Rodney was holing himself up, and had sought him out, taking his friend to back his place and setting two chairs out on the balcony overlooking the east pier. He even brought out his secret beer stash. They sat in silence for a while, then talked far into the night. Both had gone to the morning briefing with their lids propped open, but content.

And now he sat at his desk, trying to balance a stone on its end. Trying to come to terms with things in his mind, trying to sort out events that almost made sense, but didn't quite get there. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find a reason for it. And that was when he gave up, and decided to let it be.

And at that moment, the stone balanced.


End file.
